


Killian Jones Gets Satisfaction

by MemoryCrow



Series: The Laughter of Loki [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkward Tension, F/M, Longing For Home, Love Potion/Spell, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Revenge, Revenge Sex, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Some Humor, Some angst, plot and scheme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 07:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: This is a Part Two or a follow-up to The Laughter of Loki, where a love spell meant for Belle went awry and snagged Killian, making him bonkers for Gold. The spell has broken, and this is Killian's reaction, his side of things.





	1. Chapter 1

Killian was so comfortable. It was possible he’d never before been so comfortable. On his ship, sleeping below decks, he took comfort from the gentle rocking of the sea, when she chose to be gentle. It was not the same thing as this deep, bodily comfort, comfort in his bones.

The bed in which he’d slept must have been made by magical beings with access to celestial materials. The sheets and blankets which swaddled about him were softer than dandelion fluff. He was warm and cradled, yet breathed clean, fresh air, not smothered. An open window? He could swear that within the wooden frame of the bed, there was a gentle rocking. Perhaps his body carried the sea with it; his blood moved to its rhythm.

Then… questions arose. They were small, hobgoblin things, little bits of soot one might brush away. They’d leave a smudge. He wanted to ignore them, so pleasant was his comfort. They began to stir him to an unwished-for wakefulness. They niggled at him, tiny, sooty feet upon his spine; little tugs at strands of his hair.

 _Wake up_ , they said. One pushed its weight against his bladder. His images of water became a bit unpleasant. He’d been happy to float on a moving surface, cocooned in comfort, unconcerned about what lurked in the depths. He’d felt as if wrapped in a blanket of soft fur, a star-touched darkness. Sleep was a spell; it should not be broken.

 _Wake up_ , said the little flakes of ash. Like the stars, they twinkled… but they were earthy things. The push at his bladder made him shift his hips, and more niggling little questions were birthed. They scampered, hither and yon.

What was it he shifted against? What was it he was draped around? It was the source of the deep comfort, the warmth, the swaddle. He was in an actual embrace, and it felt too good to question.

Generally, he preferred to sleep alone. A shared bed sounded good, yet more comfort in the long, dark night. For Killian, the reality had always been an intrusion of bone upon flesh, stolen bedclothes, a shock of cold feet and a staleness of breath. It hadn’t been all it was cracked up to be, and often left him half-awake, twitchily restless.

How different this was. This embrace. Being warmly held, the scent of night air, night-blooming flowers and sleeping earth all around. Fingertips, pleasing, but oddly rough in texture, began to stroke softly along his spine, following the path of the hobgoblins and their irksome questions.

Killian heard his own quiet moan. Along with the pressure at his bladder, a growing pressure, it pulled him further from the place in which he longed to stay. His eyes slowly opened.

_No._

“Oh…. Fucking hell.” He groaned.

The Crocodile, eyes still closed, nevertheless smiled his Crocodile smile.

 _No, no, no_.

Yet… gods, it was difficult to move.

“Good morning, princess.” The Croc said, then his eyes opened.

This wasn’t happening. It had not happened. Time _must_ turn back.

And…. It was _weird_. Killian’s morbid fascination almost overrode his shock and horror, for how strange it was to see Rumplestiltskin in this manner. His hair was mussed, pushed back from his forehead. Killian took in silvered side-burns, more strands of silver than he was used to seeing where Rumplestiltskin’s hair swept back. He saw the age in the Imp’s face. It did nothing to diminish the bright gleam of cleverness in his dark eyes. They were, as always, deeply hooded and full of secrets. The secrets twinkled.

“Fucking hell.” Killian repeated.

Squirming himself out of the embrace and leaving Killian surprisingly bereft, Rumplestiltskin rolled to his back. He yawned hugely, one hand pushing through his hair.

Killian stared, at a loss. He’d seen Rumplestiltskin in different guises, at different parts of his life. He hadn’t always been the controlled, well-dressed practitioner of sharp-tongued civility who dwelled in Storybrooke. In fact, Killian considered the persona of Gold as a fairly large lie.

… But… naked and in bed? Body warm and relaxed after a long, debauched night of…? Oh, fuck. _Fuck_.

“No.” Killian said, aloud and with finality.

Rumplestiltskin rolled back to his side, head propped on the palm of his hand. He cast amused eyes over Killian.

“Oh, but yes.” He assured Killian. “I’m afraid you’ll be walking bow-legged for a week, dearie.”

No. He wouldn’t contemplate what that meant. He wouldn’t think about dull aches in alarming, to say nothing of surprising places. Killian flung the bedclothes back, his eyes struggling for a moment as the naked body of his enemy was revealed. He wanted to look. He pointedly did _not_ want to look. Curiosity won out and he cast a brief glance… his eyes took in the body of the skinny, smaller man… the sleeping cock that followed gravity’s path to the unbelievably comfortable bed. A blatant lie, it looked innocent.

Turning away, shocked to his core – which vibrated in a shaky, unpleasant way – Killian made his way to the bathroom.

He’d been violated, fuck’s sake. He’d been used, and he _did_ feel bow-legged, like he’d been on horseback for days. He let a long stream of urine hit the bull’s eye of the toilet bowl, suppressing another moan, one nearly of pleasure. It was galling to feel pleasure in the Imp’s house. In his bed.

Returning to the bedroom, he was relieved to find Rumplestiltskin wearing boxers. He was tugging on his cast-off shirt, sitting splay-kneed on the edge of the bed. Killian became shy of his own nakedness and rooted about for his trousers. Good gods. They’d torn each other’s clothes off. They were thrown all about.

It was so clear. Why must it be so clear? Why couldn’t the spell come with an amnesiac factor, so that he might treat this like a drunken mishap? _I don’t remember a bloody thing, mate. Let us never speak of it. I’ll be killing you later, today. Ta for now._

He remembered. He felt it differently, now the spell was worn off. His own sense of ardor, of urgency was much faded. But he remembered how he’d felt, he remembered his actions.

Pulling on his leather trousers, he said, “You could’ve… _stopped_ me. Tied me to a bloody chair or something.”

“You were quite insistent, Killian.”

“I _know_. The fucking spell. But you weren’t ensorcelled… you could have kept things from going so far.”

Killian was surprised to see Rumplestiltskin’s face color. Looking away, the Imp muttered, “I’m not so sure about that, dearie.”

The spell was broken. Killian could feel that it was broken; it was over. Evidently, a night of carnal knowledge, things he couldn’t un-know, satisfied the magic. Still, there were lingering… feelings. It was horrible. Seeing Rumplestiltskin blush, Killian had an impulse to go to his knees, to cuddle-up between the Imp’s thighs and hug him… maybe offer a little kiss.

 _No_. It was ghastly.

His shirt was untucked, laces at the chest all awry. He was yet barefoot. He had to get out.

Rumplestiltskin asked, “Do you want breakfast?”

Eyes wild, Killian stared in disbelief. The Croc should feel lucky he wasn’t being beaten to death with his own cane. And yet… yes, Killian did want breakfast. He wanted to drink coffee in Rumplestiltskin’s kitchen and watch him make breakfast.

These… tangents, impulses… they were intolerable. Eyes still fevered, Killian snapped his hook into place and reached for his boots.

“Alright, dearie. No breakfast. Just trying to be civil.”

“You weren’t bloody civil last night.” Killian struggled into his boots, hopping a bit.

“You didn’t seem to mind my lack of civility.”

 _Don’t remind me_ , Killian thought. It was his turn to blush. “Fuck off.” He grumbled. “Next time you feel the need to cast a love spell on your lady, just… don’t. And stay the hell away from me, Crocodile. Stay out of my sight.”

Rumplestiltskin only shrugged. He didn’t voice the obvious, which was that they were both stuck in a small town, no exits. Everyone was in everyone’s sight. It was maddening.

Killian took a last glance. Rumplestiltskin, a bit slouched, gave a mild, neutral look in return. Stiff, Killian stalked out of the bedroom, and then out of Rumplestiltskin’s home.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He kept to himself. On the one hand, it was appealing to seek out Emma, to try and seduce her and reassert his prowess in the bed of a woman.  On the other… Emma and her bloody superpower. The human lie detector. Those Mary Margaret inspired lines, like _, we have to be honest with each other, Killian. Without honesty between us, we don’t have anything_.

Why? Why must this be absolute? He would no more be honest about what happened than he would discuss his bowel habits with Emma. Or, perhaps more relevant, discus the details of all the murders he’d committed during the course of his long life. Hints and allegations; it was more than enough.

Why did the people of this world, the women in particular, demand so much honesty? A small lie, here and there, made things tolerable. Sex, for instance. Sometimes it was just plain horniness. Maybe a stiff, warm breeze conspired with an odd rush of some internal chemical and gave one a stray thought, quite apart from anything specific to a beloved. Maybe some random shape suggested something bent over, and one’s cock said _, hey…_

In such an instance, perhaps it would be honest to say, _I want to use your hole. Make it wet, chop-chop_. But, really. How was that good for anyone? It was so much better to breathe _, I want you, I want to fuck you._ And – within the blink of an eye – the words were true. They were true, no matter their source.

So, Killian kept to himself, embarrassingly afraid to be around Emma. It left plenty of time to be visited by visions of what had occurred.

It was torture. It was torture because… it _wasn’t_ torture. Thinking about it made him hard, which made him want to slap his own face. Repeatedly. If he tried, purposefully, to think of Emma – or anyone else, for that matter – the thoughts eventually just rolled back around to Gold. Rumplestiltskin. He would appear, smug and with eyes that knew Killian too well. Hands, fingers that _knew_ him.

Killian had learned a few things. Surprising things. Such as, he loved Rumplestiltskin’s hand, enclosed around his neck. Already as aroused as the spell could make him, that simple gesture had nearly driven him mad. He’d also been surprised to learn how much he liked kissing Rumplestiltskin… the way the kisses went from a soft tasting, sampling, to something that devoured. The way he could close his eyes and let it go on and on, not wanting the feeling of it to stop.

He bodily flinched, remembering. How he’d begged. How he’d given himself. How he’d yearned to feel his mouth filled with the heat of Rumplestiltskin’s cock, an undeniable intrusion, and how he’d moaned, all but drooling when it had happened.

It was a betrayal of self. It was a betrayal of Emma, even Milah. (Why did the names of his women all sound the same?) It bloody betrayed everything.

Jaw clenched, resolve hardening – though perhaps not as committedly as his cock – Killian decided this was just one more reason for revenge. He’d let his vendetta die down, for the sake of Emma and her family… Gold as Henry’s grandfather or some hyperbolic horse-shite.

But no more.

 

 

“I want him to suffer. I want him humiliated – publicly. I want him devastated. Writhing in shame, shame so _dreadful_ , he wants to die.”

Regina gave Killian an odd look. He felt the blaze in his eyes, the color in his cheeks. He tried to tone it down a notch, to be a touch less virulent. It wasn’t easy. His anger was real, but he was uncomfortably aware that it was driven by a bizarre lust. Well, then. Let it be bloodlust.

Regina’s head tilted. “You’ve always wanted revenge. What’s different?” Tilting her head the other way, her eyes nearly as shrewd as Gold’s, she added, “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If you want my help, it matters.”

Imagine, Killian thought. Going to Regina for help with the Crocodile. He must be going insane. For a while, he stared at the high gloss of her desk. The high gloss of her red, red apples. The same gloss colored her lips, and all of it was stark within the paleness of birch-forest walls.

“Come on, Hook. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

His eyes flared at her wording, briefly meeting hers. Must she? He was a fucking wreck. He was turning perverse. He had a moment of seeing himself in lacy panties that couldn’t hold the cumbersome package of his cock and balls; teased for his shameful display by a rather entertained Gold.

Why? When would these thoughts go away? Thoughts that were well on their way to becoming fantasies of a nature he surely didn’t need.

He drummed his fingers on her desk, then said, “He tried to cast a love spell on Belle.”

The red, maybe plum gloss of Regina’s lips curved into a small smile. “That’s rich. I guess it’s no surprise he’d have to sink to such measures.” The idea seemed to please her.

“It didn’t work.”

“Also, no surprise.”

“It… landed on me.”

It took a moment to register. Killian couldn’t look at Regina while the information processed… this was the feeling he loathed… exposure, shame. This was why he needed revenge. The Imp should feel as he felt.

He stared just past her shoulder, out of white-curtained windows and into a glare of light. It all blurred.

“Wait.” She said. Then, “What _happened_?”

Shaking his head, Killian said, “Enough. Surely you don’t need details. I want him to pay.”

Leaning back in her chair, Regina’s smile was broad. She looked at Killian with a new light in her eyes, and he thought – _You bitch_. Yes, he’d gone insane. He’d make a mistake, coming to her. One of several. But who else was there?

“Did you declare your undying love?” she asked, a warm bubble of laughter spilling out.

Killian glared. _Maybe_. He’d made a lot of declarations.

“I’m so glad this amuses you, your highness.” He growled.

“It _really_ does.”

“Look, will you help me or not? He did a spell named for some ‘Loki’. I want it turned back on him.”

“I think it _did_ turn back on him.” Regina said, eyes twinkling and smile merry. “For goodness sake; _Loki_? What was he thinking?”

Killian endured Regina’s delighted scrutiny a moment more, then demanded, “ _Well_?”

“Oh, simmer down, pirate. At last, your ridiculous eyeliner found a worthy target.”

She chuckled and Killian stood. Regina motioned for him to sit; he remained standing.

“Okay, I’ll help you.” She grinned. “But I’m not touching anything to do with Loki. I’ll see what else I can come up with.”

“Really?” Killian thought he might cry. He hardened his jaw against it, mouth turned down. His look was one of distrust.

Regina shrugged. In so many ways, she was not at all unlike Gold. It made Killian feel horribly vulnerable, at a loss as to the true agenda of wicked people. “Sure.” She said. “It’ll be fun.” Grin in place, she added, “I could use a little fun.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“I was right.” Regina said, clearly excited. “This really will be fun. I actually have to thank you, Killian. This is giving me an opportunity to experiment with a rather exotic spirit. I’ve had my eye on a few.”

“Experiment? You’d better bloody well know what you’re doing.”

“Don’t be boorish. I’ve wanted to try some of this stuff out for _ages_ , but there’s been no call. Now, knowing Gold mixed his magic with an entity of this world…”

“… And that went so well.”

“Pirate, please. Look, I’ve put a lot of study into this. I’m going with a possessing spirit.”

Killian looked at Regina, blank. It meant nothing. He wanted Rumplestiltskin to strip naked and go running through downtown, arms outstretched, raging boner bouncing all around, like a whir-a-gig in a confusion of wind. Perhaps chasing after David Nolan. Or Archie. _Or Pongo_. He wanted tears streaming down the Imp’s face as he made his chase, pitiful voice calling out, _Let me give you all my love! All of it_! Hand holding desperate cock, pointing it at the object of his affection.

What the devil did ‘possessing spirit’ have to do with anything?

“You never were one for details.” Regina noted, dryly. “More of a wham-bam sort, aren’t you, Hook. I’ll never understand Emma.”

“Could we get on with it?”

Nodding, Regina said, “I’ve been fascinated by spirits of this world in the Voudon tradition. They have paths… different faces and attributes for their different aspects.”

“This is riveting. Truly.”

With a look of consternation, Regina said, “I’ve begun a love spell, working with a spirit called Erzulie Freda Dahomey, in her path as a courtesan. I’m enticing her to possess Gold, as she likes to take a ride in humans, now and again. Once in his body, she’ll choose her target. Her actions will be his actions.”

Slowly, a picture formed. Killian grinned. It was a rather wicked grin. His brows drew down and conspired with the wickedness of his mouth, the wicked whiteness of his teeth. The tip of his tongue touched the corner of his mouth where, perhaps, he drooled. Regina drew back a bit, given pause by the evil lasciviousness of Killian’s expression.

“The actions of… a courtesan?” Killian mused.

“Yes, indeed. And one who loves beauty, luxury… who loves _love._ He won’t be able to control himself, or his need. It should be quite interesting.”

An evil rumble of low laughter issued from Killian’s throat. Maybe Gold really would put in a naked appearance, downtown. Maybe with a feather boa and fancy footwear.

Regina continued, “I’ve made the appropriate altar and everything is ready. But, since this is a spell being done on your behalf, I need you to bring a gift for the altar. Once that’s in place, the spell will begin.”

“A gift?”

“Yes. I trust you’re familiar with wooing a woman in a manner that doesn’t involve grunting and dragging them about by the hair? Get something lavish… a beautiful cake, a big, frothy bouquet of flowers… something like that.”

“For a spirit?”

Regina huffed and rolled her eyes. Relenting, Killian said, “Alright. Fine. I’m off to buy a present for a courtesan.”

“Not _just_ a courtesan. Be respectful.”

“Very well. Er… can you lend me some money?”

Regina’s eyes rolled again as she reached for her purse. “Truly. Emma should have her head examined. I just don’t get it.”

Happily, Killian took the offered currency, paying little mind to insults and observations too long-standing to matter. Evil grin still playing about his face, he contemplated what to buy for a spirit who would possess Gold, and… _ride_ him.

 

 

 

Killian watched. He waited. It didn’t seem like anything was happening. Something needed to happen.

He was confronted by Belle at Granny’s. She looked at him with a narrowing of blue eyes that nearly rivaled Emma’s Green Eyes of Truth.

“What were you doing with Rumple, the other day? Was it… like… a chiropractic maneuver?”

What the devil was that? Whatever. It had to be better than what had actually happened. Keeping his expression neutral, he soberly intoned, “Aye.”

To his relief, Belled looked relieved. She smiled, a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “I didn’t know _what_ to think.” She confessed.

Nor did Killian. He remembered telling her that Gold was moving on, as should she. Perhaps she took it as vague, generalized advice, offered during something… chiropractic.

Later, near the harbor, there was Emma. Bloody hell. There needed to be a secreted away tavern where women would fear to tread. The Rabbit Hole wasn’t rough enough.

“Where ya been hiding?” Emma asked, playful.

She brushed up close to him, her right hand toying in a naughty way about his hook. Killian coughed into his fist.

“Oh, I’m not hiding, love.”

“No?”

He produced a boyish grin, a face that said, _give me a cookie_.

“It sure felt like you were hiding. Maybe… hiding something?” She gazed at him in question, and Killian felt the small of his back visited by an unpleasant, chilly clamminess.

“Nothing to hide, Emma.” If that wasn’t the grandmother of all lies.

Then he saw Gold. _Rumple-fucking-stiltskin_. Gold saw him. He saw him, and stopped dead in the street, staring. Fuck. Did he know? Did he know that Killian conspired against him?

Oddly, Gold took a moment, so much of a moment that Emma turned to see what Killian stared at, caught up in his morbid fascination. _What’s the predator doing? What is it thinking_?

“What’s he up to?” Emma mused.

Gold let his cane rest against his hip as he methodically removed his leather gloves. It was a weirdly slow process, and he stared – fixedly – at Killian, all the while. Curiosity fully peaked, Emma turned to look at Gold, head-on.

She murmured, “What the hell…?”

Pocketing the gloves, Gold took hold of his cane once more and made a bee-line for Killian.

“Fuck.” Killian muttered, and Emma turned to look at him in surprise. He’d toned down his swearing in the presence of Henry and the Charmings.

He nudged Emma to stand behind him, though he rather wanted to reverse that process. She seemed to regard it as sweet, but unnecessary. Still. Killian felt his balls tense and draw up, his body flooded in an uncertainty of what would happen.

Coming up level, Gold stared him fully in the face, acknowledging Emma not at all. It felt outlandishly weird… Gold stood too close. He gave an overly warm smile, and said, “Hello, dearie.”

_Oh, no_.

Stiff, face full of tension, Killian said, “Crocodile.”

If anything, Gold’s smile became warmer. It could melt chocolate. Killian could suck the chocolate from his fingers, his tongue. But that was off topic.

“So.” Gold said, something of a purr. He sounded decidedly unlike the Imp. “How are you?”

There was a peculiar little sound that came from Emma, a querulous little mew. Killian understood. He was confused, and had a premonition of doom.

Keep it together, he thought, and said, “I’d be better if not in your company, Rumplestiltskin.” But for the whole business of chocolate sucking. Shut up. _Shut up_.

Gold’s bared hand rose – Killian tensed, skin recoiling at the thought of magic, of the sudden departure of his heart – but Gold pressed his hand to his own heart. He performed a little mockery of a gasp, mouth dropping open. Yet he still smiled.

“Ah, you wound me.” He said, voice still warm with the purr. “I suppose I’ll have to leave you in the company of your… lady friend.”

His eyes never landed on Emma. They roamed in a wistful way over Killian, brows pushing up in the center. A hungry and denied dog, too polite to make a fuss; it’s tail still gave a half-hearted wag. He tapped his cane to gravel, raised a brow and went on his way. He walked along the water-side, not looking back.

Voice amused, Emma said, “What was that? _Lady friend_? Why do I feel like I should know things about girdles and kid gloves?”

“I…. dunno, love. Maybe the Croc’s going senile.”

“May _be_.” Emma agreed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Even when he was winning, he was losing.

Killian leaned back and made a rude show of propping his booted feet on Regina’s desk. He bit into an apple with teeth that implied brutal ravishment.

“Is that necessary, Hook?”

He chewed like the Neanderthal she accused him of being. Apple clenched in his fist, he pointed at her with his middle finger. Full offense.

“You fucked me.” He turned the middle finger upwards and thrust.

“If I understood correctly, you were fucked before you sought my help.”

Killian blushed. Shite. Why had he turned to this witch? Persisting, he said, “Your bloody spell worked. He’s possessed.”

Irritated, Regina widely waved an arm. “Then what’s your damage, Killian? Why are you here, interrupting my day with your _feet_ on my desk?” She scowled, her eyes on the bottoms of his scruffy boots.

Killian took another vicious, ravaging bite of apple. Maybe it was one of her special ones. Maybe he would die. One could but hope. Swallowing, he said, “The courtesan wants _me_.”

Light dawned in Regina’s eyes. She sat back. “Oh.” She said, softer, thoughtful. “Yes. I can see how that would happen.”

“What.” He was going to throw the apple at her. There would be a small satisfaction in watching it bounce off her forehead. Then he could die.

“Well, she likes pretty things.” Regina’s voice was casual and reasonable, as if they discussed what to have for dinner, rather than the fact that – one way or another – adventures of an impure and alarming nature continued to arise between himself and his enemy. He was going to throw all the apples at her… pelt her with one after another.

“You’re certainly not _my_ type, Hook, but there does seem to be a general consensus regarding your prettiness.”

Killian heaved a heavy sigh. “Devilishly handsomeness.” Why would no one ever get it right?

“Whatever. The point is that if the courtesan falls in with popular opinion, it makes sense that the person she’s possessing would find you… alluring.”

“Does it, love? Where was all of this sensible thinking when you were drumming up the spell? I want Rumplestiltskin naked in the street.”

“Do you, now?” Regina gave a sardonic look. The curl of her lip showed delight. Her scar intoned disgust.

“I don’t mean… I don’t mean I _want_ him, naked in the street.”

“Are you sure about that, Hook?” Regina held up her hand, halting his response. Killian felt rather grateful to be halted. With a shake of her head, she said, “Think about it, Killian. This is a _good_ revenge. This is better than if he humiliated himself, going after… whomever. _His_ spell made you _want_ him.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“But that’s what it did. You wanted him; that’s what has you so pissed off. Well, now it’s your turn. He wants you. He can’t help himself. He’s sad not to have your attention. He’ll be jealous of Emma. Hook, when this spell wears off, his humiliation will utterly overwhelm him. He’ll probably try to kill you, just to get some relief.”

“Do you think so?” Killian asked, mildly hopeful.

“I do. Make him suffer. Make him beg.”

 

 

Rumplestiltskin slid into the booth, across from Killian. So much for supper. Stomach tightening, Killian glanced around Granny’s, concerned for what others might think. Although surely they wouldn’t think anything remotely close to the truth. Then he remembered; it was Gold who came to him. He held the position of power. Eyes on an unhappy looking Imp, he took a swig from his flask. He frowned.

“What do you want, Crocodile?”

Gold drew small circles with his forefinger upon the table, looking down. His hair fell in face, wing-like. Killian fought an urge to smooth it back, to feel its softness.

“Where do you sleep, pirate?” Gold asked.

It jolted Killian a bit. His mind whirled about, but – gruff – he asked, “What do you care?”

“Well.” A shrug of well-tailored shoulders. “Ever since…”

“Don’t say it.” Killian hissed. He leaned forward. Place of power or no, he didn’t need the unspeakable to be spoken.

Gold looked up, his eyes observant. “So… where, then? With Emma?”

Voice low, Killian said, “On me bloody ship, mate. Let it go.”

“No need to be so sensitive.”

Killian huffed. Sensitive. He’d show the Croc sensitive.

Meeting his eyes, Gold’s rather too clever for one possessed, he said, “You could sleep in one of my beds, you know. It needn’t be the one I’m _in_.”

The down-turn of Killian’s mouth was pronounced. He looked at Gold as if he’d released a fart of evil. Yet he was stuck… he stared, wordless, wondering over the offer. He remembered the comfort.

“Why would you offer such a thing? The better to murder me in my sleep, I suppose.”

Smiling, more like himself, Gold said, “If it pleases you to think so, pirate. I have the bed to spare. You’re sleeping on a boat.”

“A _ship_.”

“Oh, indeed. And now we have… “

“Shut up.” Killian’s voice was a dangerous growl.

Un-phased, Gold continued, “… A _connection_. One that isn’t based solely on revenge.”

“I think you’ve put me off me supper, Imp.”

“Ah, well. We both know that’s a lie.”

Gold was correct. It took a great deal to put Killian off his food. He stabbed a fork into a mound of shepherd’s pie and ate in a spiteful manner.

“I know you’re _always_ hungry. I could feed you… better than this shite. I know you need money. I have money. Your life could be a great deal better.”

Killian pointed his fork at Gold, a gesture of aggression, but his mind went a little blank. He felt a bit dizzy. Was this what seduction felt like? He imagined the warmth and comfort of Gold’s home, the deep colors and spell of sleep. He imagined money in his pocket; not worrying about money. Regular meals. Was this not what everyone sought? The good life?

In exchange for…? The hand at his throat, which he couldn’t stop thinking about? In exchange for a kiss? For more?

Making a cruel face, he poked the air with his fork, aiming for Gold. “The joke’s on you, mate. You’re under a spell, just like I was.”

Oh… way to make the Imp beg. Regina was right; he was nothing but wham and bam.

“Don’t be absurd, dearie.” Gold looked briefly puzzled, maybe concerned. He shrugged it off. “Who could ensnare _me_ with magic?”

Killian made a harsh, indignant sound, then took another bite of his supper. It was okay; a little bland. He wondered what Gold would cook up. Mouth full, he muttered, “Hubris.”

“Pardon me?”

Killian swallowed. He pointed again with his fork. It was difficult to stop. The fork seemed to have thrusting power, as his hook occasionally had grappling power.

“Hubris, mate. That’s a thing, right? Your bloody _pride_. Your arrogance is making you soft. Careless.”

“Indeed.”

Gold’s face took on a sharp, almost prissy look. There was sudden clarity where there had only been a fuzzy sort of puppy love. Shite. Why was he doling out hints, all but confessing his own secrets? Gold would have his balls.

… Had already had them, in fact. In the palm of his hand. Killian fought off a little spike of lust, a sharp alarm of heat, low in his belly. A tense interest at his balls, which remembered the warm fondle and began to relive it. Shifting in his seat, Killian muttered, “Bloody hell.”

At least his discomfort seemed to steer Gold away from the suspicious path on which Killian had neatly set him. Instead, he noted the sudden heat at Killian’s face, the squirm of his body. His brow creased.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have supper at my house?”

“Said the spider to the fly.”

Dismissive of the remark, Gold waved a disdainful hand at Killian’s plate. “Frozen peas and instant potatoes. It must taste like saltine crackers and paste.”

Staring at his half-devoured plate, Killian admitted to himself; a _bit_. The want of his belly was such that he often wasn’t too fussy. He might eat crackers and paste.

Idly, he pushed a wrinkled pea about with his fork. It lacked hydration, having been frozen. Keeping and eye on the pea, the wrinkles bringing up inappropriate thoughts of a scrotum – is this what Imp Rumple’s balls would have looked like? – he asked, “What were you thinking of making?”

Gold leaned back, pleased. Warmth radiated from his side of the booth.

“I’ve got an oven stew cooking, now. It’s been slow cooking for a few hours. A roast, potatoes, carrots, onions… a bit of tomato and red wine. Garlic. Some good, crusty bread, already buttered and wrapped in foil, ready to warm up in the oven. The roast is making its own gravy… the smell in the house makes the mouth water.”

Killian dared to glance up from the pea. The Imp-ball. That bastard. Gold was trying to keep a cavalier air, an attitude of one who did not blatantly attempt to seduce with food. Despite what he’d already consumed, Killian’s belly produced an audible rumble. Gold chuckled.

Well…. It would only be supper. In fact, it was within reason to say Gold _owed_ him. There needn’t be any exchange, no goods for services, because Killian had already done heavy duty servicing. Surely, he deserved a slow-cooked oven stew for his efforts.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

They were watching Lord of the Rings. Killian had no idea what on earth it was. He slouched on a love seat in the dwelling of the Charmings, hook-arm loosely draped around Emma’s shoulders. Henry was at their feet, magic-electric-book-thing open, playing the movie.

It was a bizarre feeling; Killian wasn’t remotely settled within it. His belly was full and his mind was occupied with images of Rumplestiltskin, shirt sleeves rolled up, a dish towel tucked into his trousers as a make-shift apron, snug to his hips. Last touches before a plate of steaming hot, savory and fragrant supper was placed before Killian. The removal of a bay leaf. The pouring of red wine.

Gold – Rumplestiltskin, Killian’s mind insisted – sat down to eat with him. Surely, they’d never before shared a meal. Killian watched the mundane act of eating with undisguised interest; _it eats!_ Perhaps this revelation was not as surprising as the fact that the Imp’s meal was not made of the virgin hearts of unbaptized children and the captured bleats of lambs led to slaughter.

It seemed he shouldn’t sit there, maybe a little less civilized without his jacket, both elbows on the table. One hand held a fork and the other a hunk of bread, with which he sopped up gravy and pushed food to his fork. Like a person. Polite; not overly graced with table manners.

That was all that had happened, the courtesan evidently a more kind and gentle sort than Rumplestiltskin. Nevertheless, Killian was left feeling the bizarre feeling. He wondered who he was… was he, in some embarrassing way, cheating on Emma?

Oh, bloody hell, don’t think about it. Her superpower would go off at any second, like the oven dinging, downstairs, moments before Mary Margaret sent David up with a plate of fresh, hot cookies.

Killian felt almost certain that he was terribly, inappropriately, woefully and gracelessly out of place.

Grumpy with his thoughts, his head leaned heavily on his fist, elbow braced to the arm of the love seat. What a name for a piece of furniture. He would need to get up, soon. His long legs sprawled, lazy, but he could feel an approaching twitchiness, a curse of restlessness. His forefinger escaped his fist to rub at his temple, and he glowered at the magic-book-thing.

“What the devil are we watching?” he asked.

Henry, as the lad so often did, looked at him as though Emma had brought home a chimp and was trying to teach it to speak human words and wash dishes.

“How do you not know Lord of the Rings? You know, Tolkien? The Hobbit?”

Blah-blah, blah-de-blah. Killian kept his face passive. He tried not to fantasize that he’d lingered at Gold’s after supper, possibly drinking something digestive and mildly narcotic. He flexed a foot, then his booted heel began an antsy tap-tapping. He felt Emma glance up.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded, not looking at her. She cuddled closer to his side, and he felt morose with guilt. He tried, without a lot of success, to pick up on the thread of the movie. It looked like the Enchanted Forest, but sounded and acted like something else, altogether. Elves, but no faeries. Diminutive people of all sorts, dwarfs with beards that went down to their knees…. Were they hatched?

A regal-voiced woman informed him that the hearts of men were easily bought. The words were spoken with a contempt that was yet gentle acceptance, and Killian thought; shite. The spell wasn’t going quite as he’d wished. He felt very confused. He felt as though his heart was easily bought. Certainly, his belly was easily bought. Maybe other parts, as well.

There came a bad moment; the movie made him gasp aloud so that both Emma and Henry looked at him, curiosity on their open faces that were not currently hiding worlds of secrets.

“What is… _that_?” He asked.

“Gollum?” Henry smiled a bit. The silly chimp was so slow.

Blah-blah; what did it mean? The thing moved manically about, rolled its eyes and spoke in sing-song riddles. It was a goblin, an _imp_.

“Fucking hell.” Killian murmured, and Emma made a light punch of her balled-up fist to his ribs. “Ow. Sorry, love. It’s just… that thing reminds me so much of the Dark One. The Crocodile.”

Henry’s smile became wide and derisive, his eyes wide. “ _Grampa_?” he gushed.

_If you fucking say so_.

Emma said, “Seriously? Gold? I can’t see that at all.” They both looked at him like he’d gone off his nut.

Still feeling the gasp in his chest, Killian said, “You didn’t know him…. Back when.” He could see it, his inner vision much too bright. Light bounced off of water and off the wooden boards of his ship, scoured almost to whiteness by salt and sun.

Rumplestiltskin, new to his power and not yet amassed in wealth… just _appeared_. One moment a buff-colored nothing, a blur overlooked. The next… a _thing_ that had once been Milah’s husband, now much changed.

Like the big-eyed, clearly mad Gollum-thing, much changed, a monster. Rumplestiltskin had eventually settled into the Dark One’s power. He’d clothed his corrupt body in rich things, much as he did now, even more disguised as Gold.

But when he’d taken Killian’s hand, killed Milah… popped out of nothingness to visit horror upon them and change them forever, he’d been a _thing_. He was dirty and blood-stained and _mad_. His only clarity was for violence… he’d soaked it up, increasing his power with every vile act. His _eyes_ had been mad, Killian remembered, yet had seemed to se everything, to be everywhere. Holy hell… he’d let that thing fuck him. In the costume of Gold, but he _knew_ … he knew this man. He wasn’t a man at all. He’d begged for it, and now he was letting himself be courted by his own fucking spell. He’d let the Imp feed him.

Not really giving a damn about Henry’s sensitive and impressionable ears, he again growled, “Fucking hell.”

“Killian, geez.” Emma scolded.

He disengaged. He stood. “I need to take a walk.” He said, and made long strides out of the room, bouncing, fast steps down the stairs, past the startled Charmings who looked too wholesome to be considered real.

He had to watch his words around Henry, but he’d lived in a world of harsh words, much more harsh than those he spoke, since he was a wee lad, himself. He’d followed rough men around harbor market places, earning his keep, red-eyed when they were done with him.

Henry could sit in comfort and safety and watch horrors unfold in some place of pretend, but Killian had lived horrors. In bad moments, he lived them, still.

 

 

Emma told him she thought they should take a little break. She said it as if his input counted, but he could tell the decision was already made.

“Just for a little while.” She said. With a gentle smile, she added, “I realized we’re coming from very different places. When you’ve lived in this world all your life, it never occurs to you that someone might be triggered by high fantasy.”

“Triggered, love?” Killian was gentle as well. They were soft with one another, as if something might shatter. As it was, they’d barely begun, and both had dead people looking over their shoulders. It felt fragile, delicate.

“Yeah. You know, the movie. It made you so angry.”

“I’m not angry.” He wasn’t. He felt drained. He felt sad, and a little relieved.

“You got pretty angry, Killian. Which is fine, I get it. I get that you have history with Gold.”

Killian scoffed, and ugly sort of snort. Yes, the anger was there.

“I just… I have a lot to deal with. Henry. Regina. Magic just freaking _pops_ out of my hands, which is pretty damn weird for me. It’s not like I don’t want to see you, but I don’t think I can do the girlfriend-boyfriend thing right now.”

Killian stared, at a loss. Boyfriend? Boyfriend? There was a flimsy sound about it. There was nothing dashing or rapacious in the word. Transient, it lacked impact. Something easily set aside.

Emma said, “Maybe we just need some time to, you know… get over ourselves.”

 

 

The urge to go to Gold’s shop was strong. Killian couldn’t account for it; he ignored it.

Could he get over himself? He hadn’t thought of himself as an angry person, yet it was clear as day to Emma. He was angry at the past, at himself. He’d nurtured a secret, immature anger for Henry, jealous of the safe and protected life he’d led, now complete with not one, but two mothers.

He’d been alive for hundreds of years, and he wasn’t over himself.

 

 

Gold found him. He was standing out on the sidewalk like a revenant, so he was easily found. He stared in the window of a jewelry store, but it meant nothing. He didn’t even know what he was looking at… he was frozen, rooted to the spot, trying not to go to Gold’s shop.

He needed… something. Some occupation, something in the present that demanded his attention. Storybrooke was killing him in an easy, soft way, with its lack of piracy and access to the high seas. He needed his mind, his body set to a task. He had no idea how else one coped as the days pressed on and on and on. If he couldn’t get over himself, he may as well avoid himself.

He was startled by Gold’s approach, a sudden scent of sweet tobacco and books at his side, the leather binding of old books not unlike his own habitual leather.

“ _There_ you are.” Gold said.

“Right here in front of you? Oh, aye. You’ve _found_ me.”

“Hm.” Gold tapped his cane to the window. “What do you want in there, dearie? I’ll buy it for you.”

“Oh, bloody hell.”

Reaching out, Gold tapped the little bead of jet that dangled from Killian’s ear. “Fancy a new bauble?”

“Not especially, mate. I’ve baubles enough.”

“So it would appear.”

Anxious and without a fare-thee-well, Killian turned on his heel and began walking. Gold fell into step, beside him. His bad leg, his cane seemed to interfere with his swagger very little. One leg swung a bit wide, stabilized by the cane. In his costume of Gold, it came across as elegant with a bit of the Imp’s grittiness.

But Killian remembered how it had disgusted Milah. He also remembered sitting up, naked in Gold’s bed, the hurt leg laying over his thigh, snug to his hip. He’d rubbed, up and down, feeling the odd ridges and bumps of badly healed bone. He’d watched the rise and fall of Gold’s chest as he’d allowed the soothing touch… a flutter at his belly, a parting at his lips. Stirrings in other places that had the completely unexpected effect of making Killian's mouth water.

“Where are you off to, Killian?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“How cross you are. Have you eaten?”

Killian didn’t answer. He did feel snippy. _Bitchy,_ said an unkind voice in his head. As Regina noted, his panties were in a twist. He was again haunted by the idea of himself in panties, and felt all the more bitchy.

More than cross, he continued to feel confused. He’d wanted Gold under a spell, and it appeared that he was… he arrived semi-regularly to inquire after Killian’s well-being, to offer food, shelter…. jewels. Killian couldn’t help but feel it didn’t really live up to his fantasy of publicly naked, out-of-control and desperate Gold, most likely led away in handcuffs, a blanket about his shoulders for modesty’s sake. Maybe a wee stop at the psych ward.

Killian had whetted his teeth on the vision. He’d wanted to be a bystander, laughing himself sick, belly cramped with laughter. After throwing himself at Gold, after learning things he couldn’t unlearn, it seemed necessary. To Regina’s possessing spirit, he thought, _please. Let us call it catharsis_.

But the spirit cared nothing for his angst, it seemed. She only wanted him, and set about showing it in ways one might think were relevant to a courtesan. She courted. She wanted to give him what money could buy.

The confusion was that Killian liked it. He liked being offered a warm bed, more baubles. He liked watching Gold rummage about the kitchen, more chatty than usual, going on about spells and recipes and what-not. And he was a bloody good cook.

He liked these things so that he felt himself looking forward to them, and then it would hit him; it’s a fucking spell. It was his own fucking spell. Sooner or later it would break.

Shouldn’t he want that? Once the spell broke and Gold realized how he’d been politely fawning all over Killian, the pay-off began. That was the revenge. Only now Killian felt confused as to whether he wanted that revenge. He was bothered that the amorous advances weren’t real, that they were manufactured; his own fucking design.

“Alright, stop.” Gold said.

Killian stopped. On a bloody dime. Gold sounded less the courtesan and more like himself… a soft cat rasp, the sandpaper of a cat’s tongue, that nevertheless vibrated with authority. In Storybrooke, his voice was very unlike that of the Imp… the Gollum thing that sang to itself and smiled at nothing. It smiled at visions in its head.

“You really _don’t_ know where you’re going, pirate. That’s clear. I’m done with these circles and nonsense zig-zags. We’re going to my house. We’ll have a drink.”

A stubborn boy, jaw set, Killian asked, “Why? Why should we? What do you care?” Oh – hell. Why was he poking in a girl-way at someone who was under a spell?

Turning decisively in the direction of home, Gold, Rumplestiltskin waved a hand. Airily, he said, “That’s neither here nor there, dearie.”

A bit dismayed, Killian found that he followed. Docile. Rumplestiltskin may as well have his heart tucked away, his body on an invisible leash. Fractious and grouchy, he muttered, “If it’s neither here nor there, then where the devil is it?”

The question seemed to tickle Rumplestiltskin, bringing out the Imp. He smiled, his hand painted the air. “Ah.” He said. “Yes, indeed.”

“What?” Killian asked, confused.

“Aye. That’s the question.”

“Aye?”

“Well said. Certainly.”

“Fucking hell.” Killian grumbled, and – with a knowing nod – Rumplestiltskin said, “Indeed, there’s the rub.”

“Look, mate. What the devil? Are you taking the piss, or what?”

“I’ve no earthly idea what that means, dearie.”

“I’ve no idea what _any_ of this means.”

Rumplestiltskin slowed his stride. He swiveled, leaning on his cane, and his hand rose to cup Killian’s jaw. His look was weirdly fond. “You’re pretty.” He purred. “Not overly clever. I rather like it.”

Killian shivered where he stood. What was he to do? He felt entranced by Rumplestiltskin’s thoughtful gaze, by the warmth and… control? of the hand at his face. He also felt insulted. Rumplestiltskin’s hand moved around, warm and a bit rough at the back of his neck, thumb stroking up and down his jugular.

For a few moments, Killian could only stand there, slack, allowing. His breath had gone shallow, and he had a vivid memory of first arriving in Storybrooke. He’d arrived, only to be almost instantly hijacked by two anti-magic zealots, random fuckery, as per the norm. They’d shown him that he’d failed to kill Rumplestiltskin; the Imp lived, though he should have died by poison.

Through his telescope, he’d watched Rumplestiltskin swagger out into the dark night, a woman on his arm. In part, the stance, the posture was gentlemanly. He’d offered an arm, to which his lady was linked. It was protective, and she leaned into his protection.

In part, it wasn’t remotely gentlemanly. It was… ownership. Rumplestiltskin, as he so often was, was, was in control. Before the linking of arms, he’d steered her out-of-doors, his hand at the small of her back. Then he’d gathered her. He directed each step, and she followed.

That sequence, as much as the fact of the Imp’s liveliness, had torn a growl from Killian’s chest. _No!_ It had been painful. Killian felt pain there, still, where Rumplestiltskin had later claimed his heart.

He wondered, now, if he felt what Belle felt. Maybe she saw the Imp through very different eyes. Surely, though, there was conflict in giving oneself to someone… predatory. Perhaps there was desire, but there was also caution, hesitation. Fear.

Rumplestiltskin moved his hand to Killian’s chest. He toyed with the charms around Killian’s neck, then stroked fingertips through his chest hair. Well, here we are, Killian thought. His knees were going weak. As he’d wished, it was public, it was out on the street. He had not planned on being a participant.

Breaking the moment to bits, Rumplestiltskin said, “I’d like to put my hand down your trousers, dearie.”

Killian’s laugh was a startled bark. He backed up a step, at once aware that – yes – he was getting hard. Falling back into an uncertain stride, he looked at Rumplestiltskin askance. He asked, “What the devil are you thinking, mate? Did you say things like that to Belle?”

Rumplestiltskin’s grin became playful. Naughty. “On occasion.”

“The deuce you say. Truly? What did she say?”

Making big eyes, Rumplestiltskin looked at Killian and gushed, “ _Rumple! Not at Granny’s_!”

Killian grinned back, much startled by the Imp-comedy that rose to the sleek and elegant surface of Gold. A blurt of laughter spilled from his lips.

 

 

Was he taking things too far, Killian wondered? Was he taking advantage? But, then… no. He’d been _had_ , literally fucked. How could he possibly take advantage?

Behind him, Rumplestiltskin murmured, “Does that feel good?”

Killian groaned softly. Quickly, he was becoming spoiled. Rottenness was not far behind. He’d been fed, some spicy-tart, wine-soaked affair called Bird of Paradise. He was a little tipsy; wine went to his head in a way rum did not. Rumplestiltskin had smoked something that smelled both earthy and sweet. A lingering scent of warm, toasted vanilla drifted about the house.

Killian was in a bathtub filled with hot water, and Rumplestiltskin was in it with him. It was headily surreal. He was behind Killian, legs cradled about, and Killian leaned forward as slippery fingers moved over his shoulders, up and down his back. Steam went to his head, along with the wine; he would melt, then blissfully drown, oblivious to death in the luxurious heat that penetrated his bones.

He couldn’t shake it, the sense that he took advantage. It was ridiculous, but still. He leaned back, practically laying on Rumplestiltskin. Skin against skin was silky, the water yet more silk. He lay his head against Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder and thought of how strange, how different the Imp looked. Hair wet, slicked back so that his temples brought his hairline to nearly a widow’s peak, his lines were sharper, more gaunt. Hollows pooled beneath his cheekbones, and his eyes were shadows. His mouth was a studious pout. His arms came around Killian, hands moving over Killian’s chest.

With a resigned sigh, Killian said, “It really is a spell, mate. I’m having regrets about it, but I told you the truth. You’re under a spell. You won’t be happy about this when it breaks.”

Slowly, Rumplestiltskin’s hand slid up and gently enclosed Kilian’s neck. He bent to Killian’s ear, and quietly asked, “Just how stupid do you think I am, dearie?”

A tell-tale shiver crept through Killian, even in the heat and steam of the water. His muscles tensed; he was both aroused by and uncertain of the hand that held him in place, the fingers and thumb that made a gentle squeeze.

Honestly, he answered, “I don’t think you’re stupid.” He’d thought many a thing of Rumplestiltskin, but never that.

“Do you truly believe Regina could cast a spell on _me_? That she could entice a spirit to possess _me_ , without my permission? Killian, do you not understand that the Dark One lives in my body?”

The shiver became more pronounced. Briefly, so did the squeeze, the pressure at Killian’s throat. He stared upward, his eyes shifting to the working of Rumplestiltskin’s jaw, of his throat as he spoke. There was a hint of stubble; it glistened with water.

Confused, he said, “…. You knew.”

“Of course I knew, dearie. I can feel it when Regina whips up her magic. Granted, it’s not always clear when it’s magic and when it’s simply a peak in her hormonal cycle. Still, one takes notice.”

“You’re… _not_ under a spell?”

“Certainly not.”

“…. Are you sure?”

Softening, Rumplestiltskin resumed petting Killian’s chest. “Pretty.” He said. “Not so clever.”

“Oi.” Killian protested. He sighed. Would no one ever volunteer _devilishly handsome_?

“The Dark One would have devoured the spirit Regina sent into itself. As it was, I sent her scurrying off. No doubt she was relieved to avoid inhabiting a crusty old man who houses a demon.”

“But… you’re not angry, mate?”

Rumplestiltskin shrugged, shifting Killian’s body a little. “I understand why you did it. I understand why you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Not at this exact moment, no.” Rumplestiltskin’s hands slid low, fingertips skimming Killian’s hip-bones. His lips pressed to Killian’s cheek before he leaned back again, hands at Killian’s torso.

“Why did you follow me about, then?” Killian asked, breathless with the petting, the affection. “Why did you offer me food? And a bed?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Bloody hell. You’re really _not_ all that clever, pirate. Must everything be spelled out?”

“I’m not so dumb as I look, mate.”

With a smirk, Rumplestiltskin said, “Hm.”

He seemed content to be silent and commune within the space of warm water and naked bodies, but Killian, antsy, persisted.

“ _Why_?”

With a deep sigh, Rumplestiltskin said, “Because I _want_ you, dearie. I care for you, you intolerable, tarted-up, twinkie bit of crumpet. _Git_. Does that satisfy your endless questioning?”

It did. It bloody well did. “Aye.” Killian smiled. He re-settled.

He was satisfied.

 

 

THE END

 

 

 


End file.
